


Habeas Corpus

by BrighteyedJill



Series: Habeas Corpus [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bodyswap, Brock Rumlow is a huge jerk, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Dirty Talk, Fuck Or Die, Gang Rape, Gunplay, HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, Lies, M/M, Misuse of stun batons, Object Insertion, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:36:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6070765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected incident in the field leaves Steve Rogers facing the infiltration of a Hydra base and retrieval of important intelligence, all while pretending to be the Winter Soldier. Unfortunately, there are important aspects of the Soldier's past that Bucky hasn't disclosed, and Steve has no idea what he's really walking into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt on the Hydra Trash Party kink meme. Thank you OP, and all the lovely trash denizens who supported me throughout the writing of this filth.

Steve knows it isn’t Wanda’s fault, not really. She reacted out of instinct in the heat of combat, and Steve makes a mental note to mention that “in the heat of combat” is not the best time to try out new maneuvers, no matter how badly the distraction portion of the plan is going. 

In any case, Steve doesn’t have time to think about the mechanics of the problem now, because he is trapped in Bucky Barnes’ body, stalking down the hall doing his best imitation of the Winter Soldier’s gait in the middle of a phalanx of suspicious Hydra guards who seem uncertain what to think about their asset’s sudden reappearance and seemingly docile behavior.

Physical skills usually come easily to Steve, but moving in Bucky’s body feels odd. The arm knows how to respond, even if Steve isn’t used to the weight of it, the heavy pull on his body, a constant ache that runs all the way down his spine to his legs. Or Bucky’s legs. This is Bucky’s body: Steve is only a temporary resident here. It feels strangely invasive to be analyzing the reflexes, the strength of this body; he doesn’t think Bucky would appreciate Steve scrutinizing all his Hydra-enhanced capabilities. But the ethics of a bodyswap are irrelevant right now, because what matters is the mission. Steve has to perform well enough as The Winter Soldier to fool the Hydra remnants left at this base. 

The lead guard punches in a code that opens a heavy metal door at the end of the hall and gestures Steve inside. The other guards keep their eyes and weapons trained on him as he enters, and though Steve is careful to keep looking straight ahead, he takes stock of the room’s layout as best he can from his peripheral vision. Concrete floor. Bare walls. A narrow metal table with built-in restraints. His heart—Bucky’s heart—thumps loudly in his chest as another Hydra guard slams the door shut behind them.

Bucky hasn’t shared much about his time as Hydra’s assassin, and Steve hasn’t pushed, but now, from a purely tactical standpoint, Steve wishes he had more information about the Soldier’s procedures. He knows how the Soldier moves and fights—he saw those for himself, and it’s easy enough to fall into those precise rhythms—but he never saw the Soldier in downtime, safe within the confines of a Hydra base. He isn’t sure how the Soldier interacted with his handlers. Silence is best, he decides as the Hydra guard who had led the way into the room turns to face Steve.

“We’re here,” the man says into his radio, then he nods towards Steve. “Weapons.” 

Steve had turned over his guns when he first met up with this patrol outside the compound perimeter. He would have liked to have a little something in reserve in case things went south, but from what Steve understands, the Soldier didn’t disobey orders. If he keeps even one knife and they find it on him later, they’ll know he’s not the real thing, so Steve begins the process of divesting Bucky’s combat gear of its many hidden weapons. He hopes there aren’t any he doesn’t know about.

It’s going to be fine, Steve tells himself. There’s no other way to get to the information that’s stored in this facility other than to let the Hydra personnel lead the Winter Soldier right to it. Steve knows this; Natasha confirmed it. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish he’d had a bit more time to consult with Bucky—or anyone else—before a sudden bodyswap forced their hand. But if Bucky had been willing to infiltrate the base for the sake for the mission, Steve can hardly do any different. 

When he’s done disarming himself, two of the guards give him a thorough pat down. He stands absolutely passive, staring into middle distance. The rest of the men relax marginally, lowering their weapons as if Steve isn’t a threat to them. As if the Soldier couldn’t kill them all within eight seconds, weapons or no. Steve breathes. He doesn’t know where he is in the compound, yet, or how many levels of security there are between him and the information he came for. He can’t leave yet, no matter how ominous the silence grows. 

Behind him, the door thumps open. A few of the Hydra guards turn to look, but Steve makes himself keep staring straight ahead. 

“So, you came back to us after all. I was starting to think I’d lose that bet.” 

The familiar voice stops Steve’s breath in his chest, and he forces himself to keep breathing as Brock Rumlow, smug half-smile visible beneath the twisted scars of healed burns, steps into his line of sight. 

“What took you so long?”

Steve makes himself stay still while Rumlow walks a full circle around him, looking Steve up and down. “You check him for weapons?” he asks the other guards.

“Yes, sir.” There’s the snap of respect in the man’s voice, the same as the other Strike Team members had always had for Rumlow. “He’s clean.”

“He say anything?”

“No, sir.”

“Fucking protocol,” Rumlow mutters. He snaps his fingers in front of Steve’s face. “Hey. Status report.”

Steve pages back in his memory to the time when Bucky had just returned to him. The flat voice, the matter-of-fact reporting of conditions had unnerved Steve then, and he remembers them better than he’d like. “No immediate need for maintenance.”

“Well, we can fix that.” The other soldiers laugh, but Rumlow ignores them to smile at Steve. “You missed us, didn’t you, soldier?”

“Yes, sir.” The voice comes out flat, devoid of the anger Steve feels, and Steve absolutely does not punch the grin off that bastard’s face. 

“You know you’ve been a bad boy.” Rumlow prowls in a circle around him, and Steve resists the urge to follow him with his eyes. “You deviated from protocol. You failed your mission, and you didn’t report back for debriefing.”

Steve isn’t sure how Bucky had been planning to explain that, if asked, but he can guess. “The relevant procedural memories were corrupted.”

“I believe that. You’ve been out of cryo too long, haven’t you? Don’t worry, tiger. We’ll fix you up.”

Rumlow sounds almost gleeful about that, and Steve thinks of the schematic of the chair Natasha had shown him, the machine that took away everything that made Bucky a person. He flexes his fingers, feeling the strength in Bucky’s metal hand, and reminds himself that that won’t ever happen again. 

“But first, you know you have to be punished. Let’s see how much you remember.” Rumlow stops right in front of Steve, close enough that Steve can smell him, feel the heat from his body. “Get on your knees.”

It’s harder than Steve thought it would be to just obey, to be the Soldier the way Rumlow expects. He plants his knees on the ground but keeps his chin up. He knows he can take whatever punishment Rumlow can dish out.

Rumlow cups Steve’s jaw in his hand and tilts his head slightly to the right and then the left. Steve keeps his eyes straight ahead and tries not to shiver at the idea that Rumlow’s looking him over like he’s a piece of livestock he might want to buy. Then Rumlow rubs his thumb against Steve’s lips, and Steve can’t help the instinctive flinch away. 

For a horrible moment, Steve thinks he might have given the game away—he’s never seen the Soldier flinch, never seen him shown any fear or surprise at all—but Rumlow just chuckles. “Guess you do remember something.” The other soldiers laugh.

Before Steve can think too much about what that’s supposed to mean, his attention is caught by Rumlow’s hand pulling a gun from his belt. Calculations and contingencies speed through Steve’s mind with a rush of battle adrenaline. If Rumlow shoots, Steve will have to move, get his hands on one of the other guard’s weapons, find an exit—No. They wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of bringing the Soldier here just to shoot him. The Soldier is a valuable asset. And in any case, Steve can’t risk Bucky’s body getting hurt if it comes to violence. Instead he waits as Rumlow makes a show of holding the gun up and stroking two long fingers against the barrel. 

“Now, do you want us to cuff you for your punishment, or are you going to behave this time?” Rumlow asks. 

Steve makes himself keep breathing. He knows Hydra had hurt Bucky, probably often, over the years. There’s comfort in Rumlow’s insinuation that Bucky didn’t always cooperate. Now, however, Steve drops his eyes and settles his hands against his thighs. He’s not here to fight. He’s taken his share of beatings, and if he can take this one on Bucky’s behalf, so much the better.

“Good boy,” Rumlow says. He lifts his right hand—the one with the gun—and for a moment Steve fears he’s misjudged the situation, but no. Rumlow presses the barrel of the gun to Steve’s lips and says, “You know what to do.”

Of course, Steve thinks. Bullies always want to feel powerful: make the other guy look foolish and weak. The Soldier could rip Rumlow in half, but here he is on his knees. It’s just an attempt at humiliation, Steve tells himself. Just Rumlow puffing up his manhood in front of the other Hydra soldiers. It can’t really hurt him. It’s not giving in, not if it’s what the mission requires. He opens his mouth and lets Rumlow shove the barrel in, sliding bitter and oily against his tongue. 

“Yeah, that’s what you like, isn’t it, sweetheart?” Rumlow pushes the gun in until Steve almost chokes, then pulls it out slowly. 

Guns have always felt small in Steve’s hands, but in his mouth this Sig feels enormous, stretching his lips tight as Rumlow works it in and out. Steve worries he might be pink to his ears with the shame of letting Rumlow do this to him, but he can’t feel any trace of heat in his skin. Maybe the Soldier doesn’t blush. Maybe he never felt shame at all, and wouldn’t have understood why this was different than any other order Rumlow might have given. Steve hopes so. 

When Rumlow pulls his gun out of Steve’s mouth, a line of saliva stretches between his lips and the barrel. Steve drops his eyes to the ground so he doesn’t have to look at the shiny wet metal. There’s a knot in his belly that feels something like fear, but not the way he knows it: not that bright bite of energy chasing him to action, but a heavy, sickening lump of dread.

“All it takes is a little reminder, and it all comes right back to you, doesn’t it?” Rumlow wipes the barrel off on Steve’s cheek before returning it to its holster. “Well, now that you’re all warmed up, show me what else you remember.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Harrison, you’re up.” Rumlow lifts his chin towards a Hydra goon at the opposite end of the room, standing with his rifle gripped tight in both hands, then looks down at Steve. “Go on, sweetheart.” 

Working to keep what he hopes is an appropriately neutral Soldier expression on his face, Steve tries to push to his feet. A firm kick from Rumlow hits flat against his left shoulder, on the scar tissue where metal joins flesh, knocking Steve on his ass and sending pain sizzling out from the joint to places Steve hadn’t imagined were connected to the arm’s circuitry. 

“Crawl,” Rumlow says. An ugly grin stretches his scarred face.

Steve shoves his tongue between his front teeth where he can bite it. Fine. More macho posturing. More trying to assert dominance over the asset, as if lording over a prisoner who won’t fight back is any sort of victory. Steve pushes up onto his hands and knees and points himself in the direction of the man Rumlow had indicated: Harrison.

As Steve moves, the hair rises on the back of his neck, and that unfamiliar lump in his stomach twists into something painful and urgent, as if there’s something about this position the body rejects. Like it knows turning his back on Rumlow is dangerous. Steve resists the urge to hunch his back defensively, and instead concentrates of the scrape of his metal fingers on the floor as he moves. 

In front of Harrison, he settles onto his knees again and waits. There are only five more men in the room, not counting Rumlow. If they all want to perform some sort of ridiculous token humiliation to punish the Soldier, Steve can take it. Better this than beating or torturing him. This might be unpleasant, but it shouldn’t hamper Steve’s efficiency when the time comes to get what they came here for and blow this joint. He schools his face to blankness and looks up at Harrison to brace himself for the next hurdle.

When the man starts unzipping his pants, it takes Steve several seconds to understand what’s happening. At first, he thinks Harrison must be going for a weapon. Instead the man shoves aside the fabric and draws out his penis, already partially erect. “Here you go, boy.”

Steve’s eyes catch on the fat, fleshy tip of the man’s cock, inches in front of his face. It’s incongruous, here in a combat situation, when exposure like this is meant for intimate moments, for lazy mornings in bed with Bucky, for teasing looks and thinly-veiled roughhousing. It’s a sight that doesn’t belong in this situation.

A quick glance over his shoulder earns Steve a derisive chuckle from Rumlow. “Don’t act shy now, snowflake. After all the cock I’ve seen you take, there’s no pretending you don’t know what he wants. Go on.”

He turns back to the man holding his cock out, and this time the sight seems completely normal, like Steve should have been ready for this from the moment Rumlow put him on his knees. The moment the guards marched him into this room. The moment he saw the Winter Soldier's cold, blank eyes staring at him out of his dead best friend's face. 

Steve’s mouth opens, and then the man is inside him, fucking his face before Steve has even registered what's meant to happen next. It’s automatic, like muscle memory. 

There’s a buzzing in his ears that drowns out the next thing Rumlow says. Whatever it is makes Harrison laugh, pushing his belly against Steve’s face. He wants to move, but all his muscles and metal parts are locked tight, braced for impact.

This isn’t supposed to be part of the mission. Bucky never told him. That might be the worst thing. No, the worst thing is pushing down the urge to vomit as the man’s stale-tasting dick jabs into the back of Steve’s throat. Or perhaps it’s the clench of his fist—one flesh, one metal—at his sides as he stays on his knees, looking up at the man’s open-mouthed expression of pleasure and just lets him fuck into his throat. 

Steve could stop this. He’s stronger than this man by far. He could bite down, incapacitate him, stand and break his neck. He could fight back. He’s always fought back. But that’s not what the Soldier does. That’s not what Bucky would do if he were here. What he'd been doing for seventy years, it seems. Compliance is what Rumlow and the others expect from the Soldier, so that’s what Steve is going to do. He will not give himself away. 

“That’s it. That’s our boy. Taking it like a champ.” Rumlow steps close enough to slap Harrison’s shoulder, jolting him further down Steve’s throat. “See, I told you, get him back in his routine, and he’ll be fine.”

No matter how brutally hard the man fucks his mouth, Steve doesn’t gag. This body knows how to take it, to breathe in through the nose whenever possible, to move with the hand guiding his head, to keep his hands at his sides, to keep his eyes fixed on the man taking him, even when reflexive tears blur his vision.

When Rumlow had said, “punishment,” Steve had braced himself for something unpleasant: something like the beatings and torture he knew Hydra had employed to train the Soldier. But of all the things Bucky had told him about Hydra, he’d never breathed a word of this. Not a syllable. When he was lying sweating and fucked out holding Steve against his chest, he’d never even hinted. Bucky had woken up this morning and put on his Winter Soldier uniform and gotten in the Quinjet and he’d _known_ and he’d agreed to the mission anyway.

Harrison finishes with a shouted curse, and Steve swallows what he’s been given easily, barely tasting it. He has to stop himself from striking reflexively when the man tugs him off by the hair—too long: not his own crew-cut, but Bucky’s soft brown locks. Steve regains his balance and settles back onto his knees, and he doesn’t lash out.

“Thank you, sir,” he says. The words spill out automatically, and he bites back the string of defiant threats that wants to follow. Harrison grins down at him and pats him on the cheek before zipping up his pants. 

Steve knows what he’s looking at: he’s seen Bucky like this—lips swollen and red from kissing and sucking, eyes fixed on Steve as he takes him deep, and how--how had he never said anything about this? There’s an ache in Steve’s throat that doesn’t exactly hurt—not the way a bullet wound hurts—but that he knows he will remember it as long as he lives. The lump in Steve’s stomach has coalesced into a heavy thrum that pulses through him, ominous as a loud heartbeat in a silent room. Steve makes himself keep breathing. Bucky had volunteered for this mission, knowing what was in store. Being unprepared for it isn't any worse than that, surely. It’s probably easier, actually, since he didn’t have to spend all day knowing this was in store. 

Steve has to keep going. Giving up isn't an option. After all, he'd never ask anyone under his command to do something he isn't willing to do himself.

“That’s it. Getting back into the routine feels good, doesn’t it?” Rumlow tussles Steve’s hair before giving him a shove too hard to be playful. “Keep going. You know how this works. You let the team down, you gotta make it up to all of them.”

The men in the room all smile: a whole pack of grinning vultures with their hands loose and easy on their guns. The nearest one slings his rifle over his shoulder long enough to unzip his pants.

Four more men. Fine. Steve can do this. Just a small number of obstacles in his way, and then he’ll be done with this. They’ll have had their fun, and Steve will be able to move on with the mission. He’d known there would be a price for getting this information, and now that he knows what it is, he just has to pay it.

As Steve crawls to the next man, he places his hands down carefully, feeling the cold concrete under his flesh hand and only the vague sense of firm pressure against the metal hand. He concentrates on the strangeness of that sensation so he can ignore the leaden tightness in his gut, the thick, salty taste at the back of his throat, the buzz of adrenaline urging him to fight. Despite Steve’s spinning thoughts, the body stays loose and easy, pliant in the face of orders. 

The next guard loses patience and snatches a handful of Steve’s hair to drag him closer. He gets his mouth open even before the man presses a thumb against his jaw to make him open up. From there, it’s not difficult. In fact, the motions come as if by instinct. Open his mouth. Look up at the man using him. Ignore the drool leaking from the ring of his lips. 

Steve tries to count the guns. Rumlow, watching from the side, has two—no, three—and the man in the back corner has a weapon slung over his shoulder that Steve can’t see from this angle. Probably a Colt M4A1, but he’d need a closer look to know for sure. There’s enough hardware in the room to fire hundreds of rounds per second.

Another guard grabs Steve’s hand and pulls it up, momentarily throwing off his balance. He manhandles Steve’s fingers to wrap around his half-hard cock. Without waiting for Steve to get with the program, he folds his own hand over Steve’s and strokes himself. The rhythm is distracting, asynchronous with the man thrusting into his mouth, and Steve loses count of the weapons.

“That feels better, doesn’t it?” Rumlow says. “Bet you missed this.”

Steve doesn’t look at Rumlow. If he looks at Rumlow, he won’t be able to keep from attacking him. He tries to make his face go blank, to be the perfectly obedient soldier they expect. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the hard floor beneath his knees, the heavy weight of his metal arm, the invasive bulk of a man's cock filling his mouth. He opens his eyes.

Someone steps up behind Steve, and he braces for a kick or a punch, but instead one of the other guards sinks down to kneel behind him. He wraps an arm around Steve’s waist, holding him tight, the way Bucky had last week, both of them standing in the elevator, dead on their feet after a marathon training session. Bucky had rested his chin on Steve's shoulder and breathed against his neck, and somehow when the elevator had arrived at their floor they'd found the energy to tumble into bed together. 

"Is that true?" The hand around Steve's waist rubs over the front of Steve’s pants—Bucky’s leather combat gear—and pushes against the outline of Steve’s dick. “You enjoying yourself?” The man pulls the metal arm up behind Steve's back and holds it there while he keeps rubbing Steve through his pants. Tucked up close behind him, the guard leaves Steve nowhere to move as one man fucks his face and another jerks himself off with Steve’s hand.

Steve looks past the man thrusting into his mouth to examine the room. There’s one exit: the metal door they came through. It’s hard to breathe, pinned in place with a cock jammed down his throat. No, two doors. There’s one on the opposite wall, with a security pad next to it. The slick slide of flesh through his hand is not under his control; it may as well be happening to someone else. He can feel the man's fingers tangled with his. The wall next to the security pad is probably a two-way mirror. Are they watching this? Recording? He could smash the glass. The metal arm is more than strong enough for that. The man behind him is rocking his hips against Steve’s ass, and he can feel the hard outline of the man’s erection even through their clothes. His hand on Steve’s cock is relentless. There’s an air vent in the floor. Six screws holding it in. Gray and a little rusty. He could texture it with pencil, if he had to draw it. 

“Fuck!” The man Steve’s sucking thrusts in brutally hard, slapping his balls against Steve’s chin, and then pulls out slowly, spewing globs of come onto Steve’s tongue, then against his lips. The guard behind him humps against Steve, jolting him forward so that he chokes on the last of the man’s come, sputtering and gasping for breath as he spits. 

In an instant, Rumlow is charging towards him. “Hey! Bad dog!” The other guards pull away as Rumlow grabs Steve by the neck and shoves his face down to the floor. “You know the rules. Vasquez was nice enough to give you a treat, you swallow it all.”

Steve lands with his hands flat on the gritty floor and his ass in the air. He can see light from the hallway underneath the door. He can still remember the route they took to get him here from the entrance. He can get out anytime. 

“I’m _talking_ to you.” Rumlow’s boot lands on the back of Steve’s neck, smashing his cheek against the ground. “Use your tongue, idiot.”

Drops of semen litter the floor in front of Steve’s face. The mission is moving along as planned. This is just another tactical necessity. Steve pushes out his tongue to scrape against the floor, tasting salt and dirt. 

Above him, Rumlow chuckles. “Good boy.” 

Steve keeps going until he can’t see anymore white, and his tongue feels fuzzy and raw. When Rumlow takes his boot off Steve’s neck, Steve pushes back onto his knees. Vasquez has zipped his pants back up, but the rest of the men are still eyeing Steve hungrily.

“Hey.” Rumlow snaps his fingers to get Steve’s attention. “Strip. Bend over the table. Park, give me that.” He turns away to one of the men who’s still fully clothed.

Steve looks at the table: waist high, bolted to the floor, leather restraints fixed at intervals along the side. If they try to tie him down, he can break out. He can still run. But he won’t. He’s come this far already, and the mission hasn’t changed.

“Since when are you so slow? Your brain need a fresh jolt?” Rumlow pats him on the cheek, too lightly to be a proper slap. “Get moving, soldier.”


	3. Chapter 3

Steve bends down to untie his boots and has to brace himself to keep from flinching when Rumlow lands a stinging slap against his ass. He can react later, and Rumlow will have more than earned a sock on the jaw. Now, Steve still has to be the Soldier. Once the boots are off, he pushes his pants down—Bucky’s combat gear, with its many buckles—and yanks the shirt off, tugging harder to pull it free when it catches on the metal plates. 

Steve doesn’t look down at this body, because it’s not his. On the best of days, Bucky keeps the lights off, and even then he prefers to keep covered as much as possible, rutting against Steve fully clothed and whispering filthy things in his ear. This body isn’t Steve’s to look at, but dammit, it doesn’t belong to Rumlow or these other swine either, these enemies gathering around the table and eying him like a good meal. 

Steve could kill these men, all of them. He has a good enough feel for the arm, for the reach and the strength of this body: he could crush Rumlow’s trachea in an instant. He’d be doing a good and righteous deed. But that’s not what he’s here for. He needs these guys to let down their guard so he can get what he came here for. He has to do what the Soldier would do, what the Soldier has always done. And that’s the kicker, isn’t it?

This very thing has happened to Bucky before. They have done this to him before, many times. Often enough that these third-tier Hydra goons know about the procedure—hell, might have participated in the procedure before—and Bucky knew exactly what was going to happen when he volunteered for this mission. He’d looked Steve in the eye and told him he could hold out as long as he needed to in order to get the information. 

If Bucky had already had this done to him—and had been willing to endure it again—Steve can do no less. Fighting has never meant backing down before, but now it’s the only thing the mission will allow. He’s almost halfway done, in any case. He just needs to hold out a little longer.

Steve turns his back on the enemy and lowers his chest to the cold metal surface of the table. The leather cuffs dangle next to where his fingers grip the table’s edge. He looks at them instead of at the men leering at him. They're worn, fraying around the edges as if they've seen heavy use, but they're high quality: hand-stitched and supple.

“That’s it.” Rumlow smacks him on the ass, and Steve quickly moves his feet further apart. Why--? Oh, to put himself at a more convenient height for Rumlow’s use. The body remembers this. His hands are shaking where they grip the table. His metal fingers scrape against the stainless steel, and he forces them still. He can still see the air vent, and he focuses on that. There’s a gouge out of the concrete in the wall beside the vent. Beside that, there’s a stain. The wall’s not a featureless blank, not if he looks hard.

“Do we need to strap you down, or are you going to cooperate?” Rumlow trails a hand down Steve’s naked skin, tracing the spot on Bucky’s flank that Steve knows is ticklish. He holds himself very still until Rumlow lands another stinging swat against his ass. “Answer me, soldier.”

“No, sir.” Steve makes his voice even and emotionless, the way the Soldier’s would have been, when he’d endured this. The Soldier might have been in this very spot, in this very position, staring at this very wall.

“You’re going to be a good boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s right.” There’s a harsh, wet sound behind him, and then Rumlow’s spit slops against Steve’s hole. Two fingers chase it, rubbing around the resistant rim of Steve’s ass. “Now, have you been saving all this for us, or have you been getting some while you were out there failing your mission? Maybe you let Rogers catch you when you got lonely, yeah? I know how you get when you don’t get your regular dose of cock.” He spits again, and this time prods his fingers into Steve’s ass, barely damp. “Feels pretty tight. Maybe you have been saving yourself for us.” The other guards laugh. “You want me to loosen you up? Use some lube?”

Before Steve can begin to imagine how the Soldier would answer that, Rumlow leans over him and yanks him aside by the hair to hiss in his ear, “This is a punishment, you stupid fuck. Good men are dead because of you. You’ll take whatever we give you, and you’ll say thank you.” He slams Steve’s head against the table so hard Steve loses focus and has to reorient himself quickly to keep from throwing a reflexive elbow back at his attacker. 

Then Rumlow’s upright again, stabbing his cock into Steve like a weapon. A single pained shout echoes off the metal surface of the table before Steve bites back any other sound. The grip on Steve’s hips is implacable as Rumlow shoves forward and forward and forward, cramming his whole length inside Steve without finesse or mercy. 

It’s not supposed to feel this way. Bucky always takes his time, even when they’re frantic after the heat of battle, or when they haven’t seen each other for days and each second apart is torture, or when they’re going at it for the third time in a single evening. Bucky has always made sure Steve is good and ready—begging for it, in fact—before taking his pleasure. Rumlow doesn’t bother.

It doesn’t hurt that much, really. Not the way it hurts to be shot in the thigh, or to land on a marble floor after jumping twelve stories, or to get punched by a metal fist. At the first brutal push, Steve’s instinct is to tense up, but then the body relaxes, bears down to open itself up for Rumlow’s cock, a reaction as apparently instinctual as holding still and baring his neck to the predator now buried inside him. Steve cringes away from the ache that radiates from his core, more intimate than a knife to the gut. 

So yes, it hurts, but not enough to incapacitate him. Not enough, even, to slow him down. That must be why they chose this method to punish the Soldier: an outsized psychological impact in relation to the amount of physical harm it inflicts. Submitting to this won’t compromise Steve’s efficiency on the rest of the mission. He pushes down the urge to fight that keeps bubbling up within him, tensing all his muscles and roaring in his ears. There is no excuse to chicken out because the mission is more unpleasant than anticipated. 

“That’s it, kitten. Take it.” Rumlow is all the way inside now, tucked up against Steve’s ass. He pulls out a bit, a painful scrape, then shoves in to the hilt again. “Show me how much you like it.” 

Steve’s fingers twitch where they’ve dented the metal. He takes stock of his body—Bucky’s body—the way he does in battle, trying to figure out how hard he can push. There’s the sharp-dull ache of where Rumlow’s burrowed into him and the distant throbbing of his jaw from being manhandled, but there’s something else there, too: a tingling rush pooling in his groin. His muscles spasm and clench, gripping the bulk of Rumlow’s cock inside him but also sending a fission of pleasure through his cock. This isn't right—Bucky can't possibly enjoy this. Perhaps there’s something wrong with the body: a reaction trained into it by Hydra. Of course, as obsessed as they are with control, they’d want to regulate every part of Bucky’s body, even his ability to feel pleasure. 

“Touch yourself,” Rumlow says as he delivers another punishing thrust. “Come on, don’t play shy now. You're not fooling anyone.”

Steve’s right hand, the flesh one, drifts down to grip his dick, which, despite the pain, isn’t entirely limp. This is just conditioning. They made him react this way for their own sick pleasure. It doesn’t mean giving in. Steve is just playing a role, the same way Bucky would have if he’d been here. Like he’d been here before. 

“Keep going,” Rumlow says. “If you stop, Park gets to use his stun baton.”

As Rumlow starts to thrust again, Steve strokes his cock, automatically falling into the rhythm he’s learned gets Bucky off the fastest: firm, long pulls, with a little twist at the head. Steve knows what Bucky looks like when he’s enjoying himself. He’s made something of a study of it over the past few weeks. The way he clenches his jaw against moans of pleasure, the way he pushes into Steve’s touch like he’s greedy for more, the way his back curves and arches when he’s trying to hold back an orgasm. Is that what he looked like when Hydra soldiers had made him participate in their fun? Had Rumlow seen him like that? 

“If I’m boring you, I know a few ways to spice this up,” Rumlow warns, panting with the exertion of fucking Steve at such a brutal pace.

Steve presses his lips together and speeds his hand along his dick until the pulses of pleasure overwhelm the discomfort of Rumlow’s vicious thrusts. He tries to think of the last time he was with Bucky: a stolen moment yesterday after training, before they’d joined the team for a final briefing. Bucky had taken Steve hard in the shower, with the water cascading over them, Bucky pinning Steve’s hands to the tile as he claimed him. Bucky must have known, then, what today’s mission would hold for him, and he had given everything, all of himself, to Steve anyway. Steve’s hand tightens around his hardening cock. A firm thrust from Rumlow knocks a groan out of him, and he pushes back against him, an involuntary seeking.

“’Atta boy,” Rumlow crows. He delivers another series of thrusts that send Steve writhing helplessly against the table. “I don’t remember you enjoying cock this much. Maybe you did pick up a few things from Rogers after all.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat, then is jolted loose by another sickly pleasurable jab of Rumlow’s cock. This isn’t supposed be pleasurable. It’s not conditioning after all. If Bucky were here, he wouldn’t have let Rumlow reduce him to this helpless object of pleasure, capable of getting off on his own violation. Bucky had endured this before, and he would have known how to make them believe he was cooperating without losing himself like this, without really feeling the sick rush of arousal that floods through Steve at each thrust. Steve shouldn’t be letting this happen to Bucky’s body, shouldn’t be touching it like this, shouldn’t be using what he knows about Bucky to get himself off. A groan escapes through his clenched teeth, and he can’t tell if the source is pleasure or pain. 

“Let me see it, sweetheart.” Rumlow drapes himself over Steve’s back, shoving into him in short, shallow jerks. “Come for me. Let me see how much you like getting fucked. Go on, prove to me that you know your place.”

Steve squirms, forcing in shallow breaths through the tightness in his chest. His hand clenches at his dick, trying to hold back the swell of pleasure that’s building as Rumlow keeps moving inside him. There’s something wrong with this, something he can’t quite grasp, but whatever the consequences, it doesn’t matter. The mission—Steve gulps in a breath as those words anchor him. He has to do what Rumlow says because of the mission. He shoves back against Rumlow as his hand blurs over his cock. Then, with a wordless shout, his hips jerk forward against the table and he starts to come, spilling over his hand.

Immediately Rumlow is on him, pinning him with an arm at the back of the neck and speeding up, pounding into him as he fucks Steve through his orgasm, growling, “Take it, take it.” 

The pleasure of Steve’s release blurs and dies as Rumlow slams into him again and again. Finally, he pushes in and stays there, dick pulsing as he empties himself inside Steve with a groan. Steve clings to the table with his eyes shut, feeling the high of his climax fade away and the pain creep in again. 

“Say it,” Rumlow says, still leaning hard on Steve’s neck.

Steve opens his eyes and focuses on the wall. The air vent is still there. The gouge. The stain. It distracts him from the limp, wet body that wants to curl in on itself but can’t yet move. “Thank you, sir,” he mutters against the table. 

“Good boy.” Rumlow pulls out with a squelch. He steps back, to zip up his pants, then makes an amused noise deep in his throat. He pries Steve’s ass cheeks apart, and wetness seeps out in a viscous rush. Rumlow chuckles, then spits again, adding another glob to the mess. “Nice and ready now. I got him all opened up for you.” He gives Steve's ass one last firm smack and steps up beside the table. “Who’s next?”

Steve presses his cheek against the table and squeezes his eyes shut. He can still hear the next Hydra guard step up behind him and unzip his pants. How many men are left now—two? Three? He should be able to remember. If he can’t keep a clear enough head to keep track of his enemies, he won’t be able to complete the mission, and all this will have been pointless. He’ll have let this happen to Bucky’s body for nothing. 

Rumlow steps up to the side of the table, grabs him by the jaw, and snaps, “Look at me.” Steve opens his eyes to Rumlow’s satisfied grin. Why shouldn’t he be satisfied? He’d just fucked Steve and made him come. The soldier is performing as expected. That means the mission is going well. “That’s it. Keep those eyes open. I want to see you take it.”

The man behind Steve pushes in: a single long, slick slide through the mess of Rumlow’s come. There’s still a raw pain at the invasion, but the man doesn’t have to expend much effort to penetrate Steve; he’s been fucked wide open. Steve keeps his eyes on Rumlow and grits his teeth hard to keep from giving away any hint of how much he wants to choke the life out of him.

“Breathe, kitten.”

Steve gulps in air, realizing at he does that he’d been holding his breath while the man pushed into him, bracing himself like he does for a hit during combat. The rise of his chest as he takes in air brings him back into his body—Bucky’s body—makes him feel every ache and stretch. 

“I know you’re excited, but you gotta keep breathing.” Rumlow pets a hand through Steve’s hair, the long strands damp with sweat. “You’re doing good. See, it all comes back pretty easy. Just like you were never gone.” He leans down a bit to whisper in Steve’s ear. “Don’t think this makes us even for everything you fucked up. You’ve got a lot more coming to you.”

“Sir.” One of the other Hydra soldiers—yes, that’s clearly an M4 he’s carrying, now that Steve can see it better—steps up behind Rumlow, holding a walkie. “Bravo Two is on the horn.”

“Fine.” Rumlow straightens up and gives Steve’s hair one last pat. “Harder, Bryant” he says to the man fucking Steve before he turns away, grabs the walkie, and steps out into the hallway.

The door swings shut behind Rumlow, and Bryant resumes thrusting into him with renewed vigor. Steve could fight them off now. The men left in the room aren’t paying him as much attention as they were before. The one in the corner who’d had his hand on his weapon is stroking his dick instead. He could break Bryant’s neck, take his sidearm, and shoot the others. Bryant is grunting heavily with each thrust, slamming hard into Steve and holding on tight to his hips. He’s distracted. If Steve kills him, he’ll never be able to touch anyone like this ever again.

That’s not helpful. Steve can’t kill these men, not yet, because he has a mission to finish. It’s almost over. There’s nothing personal in this: a man he didn’t even get a good look at pumping away inside him, a man whose face he wouldn’t be able to pick out of a crowd. Almost all of them have used him by now, anyway. Soon this phase of the mission will be over, and then Steve can drop this act. He can fight again. Just not yet. 

The door slams open, bouncing against the wall as Rumlow storms back in. “Get him up,” he snaps.

Bryant pulls out with a squelch, then someone else grabs Steve by the hair and pulls him up to standing. He stumbles, overbalancing with more weight on his left side than he’s used to. Bryant grabs him by the arm and holds him upright while Rumlow stalks up to them.

“You stupid little shit.” Rumlow backhands Steve. It stings, but it wouldn’t have slowed him down. It’s not the way you attack an enemy you respect. “You’re supposed to be a competent soldier, a fucking _ghost_ , and you don’t even know when you’re being tailed. You—“ Rumlow bites off whatever he was going to say and points his finger in Steve’s face. “Later, you are going to make this up to me.”

“Is everything all right, sir?” Bryant asks.

“Yeah, fine. This isn’t going to make a difference, anyway.” Rumlow scrubs a hand through his hair, and then his expression shifts, breaking into a smile. “You know what? It might even be fun.” He regards Steve for a moment, raking his eyes up and down his body, then nods. “Park, Bryant. Take him into the obs room and keep him quiet.” Park starts to tug him away, but Rumlow grabs Steve by the jaw and makes him look at him. “Hey, soldier. You get fresh with my men, I’ll take it out on our new prisoner, yeah? Be good.” 

He shoves Steve away and turns his back on him, as if there’s no danger of retaliation. As if Steve could never be any kind of a threat. Steve curls his hands into fists, feeling the power humming in the metal arm. This body is strong and fast and can fight through almost any pain. The only thing holding him back from violence is his will. Used to be all he had was his will. Now he has all this strength and can’t let himself use it. 

“Move,” Bryant growls and prods at Steve’s shoulder with the butt of his gun. Steve moves.

Bare feet cold on the concrete floor, Steve follows the men through the door on the opposite wall. The room beyond is nearly empty, save for some recording equipment stacked along one wall. The air is dry and still, as if the room hasn’t been used in a while. When the door slides shut behind them, the sound of Rumlow talking to the other soldiers cuts off entirely. Steve can still see their mouths moving through the two-way mirror as they stream out into the corridor, but there’s hardly any sound bleed. 

“Now that we’ve got you alone, why don’t you--” 

Steve sees movement out of the corner of his eye and reflexively brings his arm up to block the trajectory of the weapon. The baton bounces off his metal arm, and Steve steps back, watching his opponent stumble and then steady himself. 

“Did he just try to _hit back_?” Bryant asked. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

Park plants his feet and glares at Steve. The high-pitched whir of the baton powering up its tazer setting pierces the stillness of the room. “Is that allowed, Soldier?”

Steve’s eyes dart between Park’s furious expression and the stun baton in his hand. He clenches his hands at his side and makes himself relax out of his fighting posture. Standing there defenseless in front of an armed enemy sets all his instincts screaming, but he tries to breathe, like Rumlow told him, and brace for whatever comes. He lowers his eyes and looks at the floor. “No, sir.”

“That’s better,” Park says, and for a moment Steve thinks he might have escaped punishment. Then Park darts forward, slamming the baton against Steve’s left arm. Electricity sizzles and pops through the metal plates. Steve hadn’t thought the arm could feel pain, but agony lances through his nerves, down his spine, over his muscles and into his brain like a knife. The pain is white-hot, all-consuming, and inescapable.

He’s curled on his side on the floor, gasping, when Park kicks him in the stomach. That pain feels distant compared to the still-sparking arm. When Steve tries to move it, it won’t respond. It must have been temporarily disabled by the shock, like a higher-voltage of the Widow’s Bite, notes the tactical part of Steve’s mind that’s still able to function through the pain. 

“Stay down,” Park snaps. He jabs the baton against Steve’s shoulder and holds it there as he writhes. Electricity screams through every part of Steve, and he can’t tell where metal and circuitry end and flesh begins, or if they’re so intertwined that there’s no way to separate them, one agony feeding off another. He can’t move: not the arm, not any part of himself, as if all of him is bound up into that damn arm somehow, not just an accessory, but a controlling interest, something the rest of him can’t function without. 

The shock stops as Bryant tugs Park away. “The commander said keep him quiet, for fuck’s sake.”

Steve must have been screaming. His throat feels as raw as the rest of him, so it’s possible. He tries to curl in on himself, but the body is only minimally responsive. If Park comes at him again, he may have to defend himself, or risk endangering the rest of the mission. Except his arm still won’t move, and he’s not sure he could stand. With the arm disabled, would he even be able to beat these two nobodies? Steve’s heart thuds in his chest as he realizes he doesn’t know this body and its capabilities well enough to stop what’s happening if it needs to be stopped. He remembers Bucky’s face on the Helicarrier, trapped under a metal beam, certain Steve was coming to kill him: the desperate helplessness of someone who knows his body's capabilities exactly and is trapped up against those limits.

“Get up.” Bryant prods Steve in the back with his boot, and Park steps back, letting the baton hang at his side. After two tries, Steve pushes to his feet. His balance is shot, and he falls heavily against the glass.

“Fucking useless.” Park manhandles him into place, kicking his ankles apart so he’s bent over, right arm braced against the glass as his left hangs limp and unresponsive, still twitching with the aftershocks of the jolt. Steve makes himself breathe. It doesn’t matter that he can’t fight back. He wasn’t going to, anyway. He looks through the glass at the room he’d been in: the table with its leather straps still swinging slightly, the wall whose every detail he’d catalogued. This is familiar. They’re just going to go back to fucking him, and then he’ll be done.

Something cold and solid prods against his ass, and Steve tenses for another shock. “Go on,” Park says. The baton settles again Steve’s already-sore hole. “Come on, push back. Take it.” 

Steve grits his teeth. As long as these two are toying with him and trying to humiliate him, they’re not jeopardizing the mission by inflicting serious injury, so this is a better choice than fighting back and letting himself get shocked again. It’s not what he expected, but it’s within mission parameters. Everything’s still on track. He closes his eyes and pushes back, letting the weighty tip of the baton breach him. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Now move.”

Steve rocks back and forth, wincing as his already abused muscles protest. The baton is bigger than a cock, and unyielding. They’ve used toys together before, he and Bucky, but this is not like that: playful, teasing, and a little bit of a challenge as Bucky plays into Steve’s competitive streak. Park could do serious damage. Steve knows Bucky can function through a great deal of pain, but then again, Bucky knows this body and its limits. Steve doesn’t want to cause any more harm if he can avoid it. 

“You listening to me?” Park levers up on the baton, forcing Steve up onto his tiptoes. “You want me to turn this on? I said move.” 

Steve braces his feet more firmly against the floor and takes a breath. The metal arm is just starting to respond again. Steve can’t risk another shock. He thinks about grinding down on a vibrating plug held on in Bucky’s hand while Bucky pets gently down his back and tells him how good he’s being. Bucky’s not here. Steve is, and he has to get through this without causing any more damage to Bucky’s body than he has already. Steve pushes the memory of Bucky from his mind and moves: short, painful thrusts backwards to take more of the baton. 

With a chuckle, Park plants a hand on Steve’s back and starts moving the baton, forcing more of it into Steve. “That’s it, you worthless cunt. Take it. This is all you’re good for.” 

Steve tucks his face against his shoulder and squeezes his eyes closed. The pain pulses through him, spiraling upwards with every thrust, but it’s tempered by cold rage. They’d spoken to Bucky like this. Regarded him as their punching bag, their toy. Not only violated his body, but humiliated him, treated him as less than human. Even these two, who couldn’t be very far up in the hierarchy, didn’t see him as someone to be feared, an incredibly competent soldier and assassin. He isn't just a weapon to them, he’s a _thing_. They'd treated Bucky like this for years. Decades.

“Look at him,” Bryant sneers. He has his cock out and is stroking himself roughly. “Not even an hour back in the fold, and he remembers exactly what he’s for.”

“Tell me you like it,” Park says, twisting the baton inside Steve.

“I like it.” Steve’s voice sounds properly flat and dull.

“Tell me you need it.”

“I need it.”

“That’s right.” Park stabs the baton further into Steve, slamming him against the glass. He doesn't struggle. Objects don't struggle. “You’re nothing without orders. Remember that next time you think about fighting back.”

“Move over.” Bryan shoulders Park out of the way. “I wanna finish.” 

“Commander’s coming back.” Park wipes the baton off against Steve’s hip and shoves it back in his holster. “Hurry up.”

Bryant grabs Steve by the hair and holds him still. He finishes with a groan, shooting stripes of come over Steve’s face even as Steve presses his lips together and his eyes shut. “Now that’s a good look for him.” 

When Bryant steps back to zip up his pants, Steve scrubs ineffectually at his face, only managing to smear the mess. That's another one down. He's making progress. The mission is proceeding as planned. He's not injured; the arm seems to be functioning again. Everything is still going well.

“They’re back,” Park says. He flips a switch by the door and sound from the other room filters in through speakers mounted near the ceiling. 

The door to the corridor swings open, and Steve’s heart sinks as another squad of soldiers pours into the room. Heavily armed and armored, there must be a dozen at least. Steve’s breath speeds up, and his fingers curl against the glass. If Rumlow expects him to service all these men, he’s not sure he can hold out. He swallows hard and clenches his jaw. He has to. There's no one else.

Then Rumlow himself returns flanked by two guards who are holding between them a bound and struggling Captain America.


	4. Chapter 4

Immediately, Steve is pressed up against the glass, straining for a better look. Park jabs the stun baton against Steve’s side, but doesn’t turn it on. “Whoa, boy,” he says. “Not yet. You just stay here and be a good boy.”

Steve tenses, frozen against the glass as he watches the guards shove Bucky to his knees. They’re all on high alert, weapons pointed at Bucky, obviously mindful of the threat he represents. They may believe the Winter Soldier is tamed, but they have no illusions about Captain America. Bucky yanks at the bonds holding his hands behind his back—must be Hydra’s specially designed magnetic cuffs, to hold that well—but subsides when Rumlow steps up and presses his Sig to Bucky’s forehead. 

This wasn’t the plan. Before the whole Wanda-related incident, they’d decided Steve would wait for Bucky’s signal to storm in with the others and take the base. He was supposed to give Bucky enough time to play this out and get Hydra to lead him to the objective. Then again, if Steve had known what Bucky would be facing at the hands of Hydra, he wouldn’t have been waiting on the sidelines either. 

As it is, Bucky’s clearly scrapped any previous plan. Steve experiences a lurch of panic as he sees himself—his own body, the one that’s allowed him to do things he’d never dreamed of—being worn by someone else. It’s clearly Bucky in there—Steve knows the contemptuous curl of the lip, the stormy anger that looks out of place in Steve’s blue eyes. Have Steve's shoulders always been that wide? The shield harness looks obscene, framing his chest like that. And there’s something different, too. This Captain America is dangerous in a way Steve has never seen in any photograph of himself: focused and intense, like he wants to rip out Rumlow’s throat with his teeth. 

“You know, this was really sloppy, Cap.” Rumlow presses the barrel of his gun—the one that had been in Steve’s mouth not so long ago—into Bucky’s forehead. Whereas Steve might just have pressed back, refusing to give ground, Bucky yields, letting his head be tilted back, though he keeps his scowl in place the whole time. “After all those lectures about strategy, running in here without any backup was pretty stupid.”

“Well,” Bucky says, and his pitch is deeper than Steve’s voice sounds in his own head. “You’re the expert on stupid, from what I’ve seen of your tactics.”

Rumlow pulls his gun hand back and swings at Bucky. The metal cracks him on the jaw with a smack that sounds dull coming from the observation room’s outdated speakers. Steve flinches, and beside him, Bryant chuckles. 

Bucky gives his head a shake, then straightens and grins back up at Rumlow, showing Steve’s white teeth stained with blood. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”

“I guess we’ll see.” Rumlow slides his gun back into his holster and folds his arms over his chest. He takes a few steps away from Bucky, then turns to wink at the two-way mirror. “Your buddy’s here. Came here begging on his knees for us to take him in. Wanted protection from you, I guess.”

“Where is he?” Bucky tries to push to his feet, but the nearest guards shove him back down and jab their rifle barrels against his head and shoulders. 

“Relax, Cap. He’s fine.” Rumlow grins at the mirror before turning back to Bucky. “Enjoying himself. It’s all a part of the post-mission routine for him.”

“That’s right,” Park whispers, and he slides his stun baton between Steve’s legs, slipping against damp skin and pressing at his balls. Steve flinches, almost having forgotten he was here, in this body, rather than over there, safe in his own body, able to talk back and tell Rumlow what he really thinks. “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

In the other room, Bucky is fuming, his expression thunderous even partially hidden by the helmet. “Where. Is. He.”

“Ask me nicely and I’ll tell you.” Rumlow steps closer, but he’s keeping a respectful distance from Bucky. He may not be above teasing, but he’s also not cocky enough to put himself within reach of an attack without a weapon in his hand. Even restrained, Rumlow sees Captain America as a threat, whereas he turned his back on a fully operational Winter Soldier. There might be a weakness to exploit there, if Steve can play this right. “You gonna be polite?”

This is about the time Steve would have spit in Rumlow’s face, but Bucky works his jaw for a moment, then looks at the floor and grits out, “Please.”

“See, was that so hard?” Rumlow executes a neat turn and barks. “Soldier. Come here.” 

Steve moves without being prompted to do so, as if this body’s so used to following commands that it will obey without conscious input. He shuffles past Park and Bryant, over to the door dividing the two rooms, which opens at his touch. His feet carry him right up to Rumlow and stop a neat two paces away, like a soldier reporting for duty.

“Good boy,” Rumlow smiles, then steps aside to give his two prisoners an unimpeded view of each other. 

Without the glass between them, Steve’s sense of vertigo at seeing his body inhabited by someone else intensifies. He takes stock of Bucky, noting the rip in the body armor on the left side that might be a bullet graze, the dark red stain on the right arm, probably a knife wound, and the tense, curled-in posture that could be the result some internal injury or at the least an unpleasant beating. The leather gloves are smeared with blood, and on the right hand, scraped knuckles show through. In continuing his inventory, Steve makes the mistake of looking Bucky in the face. 

When Bucky’s eyes go wide, Steve remembers what he looks like: naked, sweaty and used, smeared with the come of Hydra soldiers and stained with his own shameful release. Bucky’s face falls, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Steve drops his eyes to the floor so he won’t have to see more of Bucky’s disgust, his anger at what Steve has allowed to happen to Bucky’s body in the short time he’s occupied it.

“He looks good like this, doesn’t he?” Rumlow swipes a hand across Steve’s cheek, where Bryant’s come hasn’t dried, then presses his fingers against Steve’s lips. 

Steve thinks briefly about biting Rumlow’s fingers, grabbing him with the metal arm and breaking his neck. But the mission hasn’t changed just because Bucky’s here. If Steve blows his cover now, they’ll never get what they came for. And in any case, with a dozen guns pointed at Bucky, he can’t risk upsetting the balance. Steve opens his mouth without lifting his eyes. He doesn’t want to know what Bucky thinks of his easy compliance. 

“Fuckable.” Rumlow works his fingers in and out of Steve’s mouth a few times. Steve resolutely does not think of Bucky’s fingers against his face, of his thumb dipping into Steve’s mouth over and over, teasing until Steve is impatient enough to beg. Rumlow tugs his fingers away and turns to hold them out to Bucky. “You want a taste?” 

Steve risks a glance up to see Bucky staring at Rumlow with narrowed eyes and a raised chin. He looks coldly furious in a way Steve has never seen himself look, arms straining against the cuffs even as he leans away from the guns pressed against his head. Bucky’s eyes are fixed on Rumlow, avoiding even visual contact with his own exposed, violated body. 

“No, I guess not. He’s filthy. Wouldn’t want to taint that all-American façade with this mess.” Rumlow turns back to Steve. “Bend over, show him how dirty you are.” 

Steve doesn’t move, eyes caught on Bucky’s bloodied teeth bared at Rumlow, giving him a wild, almost desperate look behind the Captain America helmet. He's already put himself at risk trying to come to Steve's rescue. But this task, putting Rumlow at ease, this only Steve can do now. Besides, Bucky shouldn’t have to witness any more harm done to the body he had no choice in loaning out. Steve will need to find a way to accomplish the mission without hurting Bucky any further. He has to comply. Complying will hurt Bucky. But he has to complete the mission. There's something important he’s supposed to be doing.

“Soldier.” Rumlow grabs Steve by the chin and forces eye contact. “Behave.”

That word in that particular tone strikes Steve right in the chest, and he feels all his muscles relax. The tight knot in his stomach eases, and for a moment he feels lightheaded, limp as a ragdoll in Rumlow’s grip. Then tension comes surging back, fighting off the artificially imposed subservience. He risks a glance at Bucky, who has slumped a bit, his eyes gone glassy. The body may recognize whatever trigger this is, but the mind is where it lives, and Bucky has to be experiencing the effects, too. Steve quickly drops his eyes and makes himself go pliant. He needs to keep Rumlow’s attention on him, so he doesn’t notice how his words are affecting Bucky. When Rumlow pushes at him, he moves.

“Good boy,” Rumlow coos. “Down.”

Steve bends over, arranging himself at Rumlow’s none-too-gentle nudges with his legs shoulder-width apart, ass towards Bucky, and hands clasping his ankles. The other guards in the room share a few chuckles and comments that Steve doesn’t catch over the roaring of blood in his ears. 

“See, Cap? I told you. This is routine for him. He likes it. Soldier, spread ‘em.” Steve flinches when Rumlow smacks his ass, but he raises his hands obediently to pry his ass cheeks apart, showing off his abused hole. A little trickle of come dribbles out, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He should be assessing the guards, calculating which one to attack first if it comes to a fight. He should be planning for a way to even the odds. For some reason, rational thought keeps crumbling under the weight of each breath. 

“Look at that,” Rumlow says. “Gorgeous.”

Steve makes the mistake of glancing at Bucky, whose eyes have cleared now that no one is giving him orders. He’s looking Steve over, taking stock of the damage Steve has done to his body in only a few hours. His eyes slide past Steve’s face and fix on Rumlow. “I am going to enjoy watching you bleed out.”

“Touchy. Not so concerned about preserving that nice guy image when it’s your little boyfriend at stake, are you?” Rumlow laughs, and Steve can see Bucky bite back whatever smart comment he had ready. 

“I mean, you had to know what he’d been doing all that time, right? Or maybe not. That bitch Romanoff only dumped the official files, I suppose. Did you not know about the asset’s other function?” Rumlow settles a hand on Steve’s ass, leaning weight into him that Steve moves automatically to accommodate, like a well-trained piece of furniture. “He gets agitated if he goes too long without sex. Did you know that?” Rumlow slides his hand down over the curve of Steve’s ass, pushes two fingers inside, and then slides them around his stretched-out rim. It doesn’t hurt—in fact, the gentle teasing feels almost soothing after Park’s abuse, and Steve doesn’t realize he’s pushing back into the touch until Rumlow barks out a laugh.

“See what I mean?” He curves his fingers and presses down unerringly, knocking a harsh exhalation out of Steve. Had Bucky ever made those desperate, breathy sounds when Steve touched him? Rumlow keeps up the pressure, rubbing cruelly against that sensitive spot and making Steve squirm on his fingers while he talks. “They ran into some problems early in the program, apparently, so they started scheduling regular exercise for him. He’s so much more mellow when he gets fucked right.” He yanks his fingers out, leaving Steve panting and shaking and shamefully hard, then wipes his fingers off against Steve’s thigh and pats him on the ass. “Stand.”

Steve obeys, falling into parade rest and staring straight ahead so he doesn’t have to look at the hard cock jutting out between his legs, undeniable evidence of how badly he’s abusing whatever trust Bucky might have had in him. He can’t think about Bucky now, not without compromising the mission. As long as he keeps Rumlow’s attention, the plan can still work. Steve just needs to continue being the cooperative Soldier Rumlow expects.

“I wonder if that would work on you. What do you say, Cap? Want to see if your old buddy can make you squeal? He’s obviously ready for it.” Rumlow traces one finger down the length of Steve’s cock, then gives it a hard squeeze, making him shudder again. “He’ll give you a good ride, if I say the word.”

“No,” Bucky grits out through his teeth.

“Don’t be so uptight. You see how much he likes it?” Rumlow gives Steve another firm stroke, and Steve bites back another helpless sound. “You think you’re better than him? You think Captain America is above all this?”

“Yes I do.” He looks directly at Steve as he says it, and Steve feels a jolt of shame twice as painful as the stun baton. “Now get your hands off me,” he growls. Bucky gives an impatient shake, and that paired with his savage tone actually makes the nearest guards back off a step.

“Wow. Jesus, Cap.” Rumlow looks between Steve and Bucky, and then shakes his head. “You know, all the time we worked together I knew you were self-righteous, but I honestly never thought you were conceited. Guess I was wrong.” 

The door swings open, and yet another soldier enters, holding aloft a radio. “Sir. There’s an update from Bravo Two.” Rumlow gestures, and the man jogs up to whisper in Rumlow’s ear. 

Steve makes himself breathe again—there’s been no air in his lungs since Bucky looked at him—and tries to listen. He hears something about an assault and a security breach, and he pushes down the hope that jumps in his chest. Even if Bucky and the others concocted some plan before he walked in here, they’re far from out of the woods. He risks a glance at Bucky, hoping for some clue, but then remembers that Bucky probably can’t bear to look at him right now, and averts his eyes. 

“Secure the perimeter. Make sure there aren’t any more surprises,” Rumlow snaps, and the guard with the walkie runs off, followed but the rest of the squad who’d brought Bucky in. “Vasquez. Go warm up the equipment. Tell medical we’re going to have a second subject. We just need to finish the pre-wipe procedure, and we’ll bring them down.” Vasquez runs off, leaving Rumlow and four others. When the door clangs shut behind them, Rumlow turns back to Bucky. “Sorry for the interruption. Don’t worry. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Procedure? That’s what you call this?” Bucky sneers.

“Apparently it helps to have something the subject wants to forget in mind before the wipe. Scientifically proven through extensive testing.” Rumlow pats Steve on the head. “Though in your case, I gotta admit, it’s personal. I wish we had more time, but we’ll have to make do. Don’t wanna let you down, Cap.”

And there, Steve sees it. From the twitch at the corner of Bucky’s mouth, he knows he’s seen it, too. Rumlow’s not stupid, but he’s a bully. He can’t resist the chance to hurt Captain America. That’s their in. That’s the way to complete the mission and get both of them out of here alive.

“Soldier,” Rumlow snaps. Steve drags his attention away from Bucky to look at Rumlow. “You remember that mission in Riga?” 

Steve makes no reply, but out of the corner of his eye he sees Bucky’s frown deepen. 

“No, of course you don’t. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Here’s what you’re going to do.” Rumlow grabs Steve’s chin and turns him to look at Bucky. “Be good for him. Get him to drop that prissy act and show us all what a needy bitch Captain America really is.”

“Rumlow,” Bucky growls. “If you think--"

Rumlow gestures to one of the remaining guards behind Bucky—Bryant, the one whose come is drying on Steve’s face—who he tugs a knife from his belt. He presses the blade to Bucky’s throat until a single bright bead of blood appears against the shining blade. Bucky lifts his chin and continues to glare, but stops protesting. 

“Where were we?” Rumlow pulls Steve in close, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they’re friends. There’s no shudder of revulsion to repress. Steve’s body turns loose and pliant under Rumlow’s touch. “You think you can make him like it as much as you do? Go on, show him what you’ve learned.”

Steve moves with Rumlow’s playful shove until he’s standing over Bucky. It’s the work of a moment to calculate their odds in a fight: only five enemies, but Steve’s naked and weaponless save for the arm. Worse, Bucky, bound and on his knees, will be vulnerable if Steve attempts an attack now. Even if the knife at his throat could be avoided, all the guns in the room are pointed at Bucky, so the risk of injury is unacceptably high. Enduring a little temporary distress for the sake of the mission is acceptable to Steve, but he won’t risk Bucky’s safety. The choice is clear.

“Soldier,” Rumlow snaps. “We’re waiting.”

Steve folds to his knees before Bucky, putting them face to face, and lets himself really look at Bucky: at his bruised face half-hidden by the Captain America helmet, the deepening frown, the eyes that are the wrong blue. He won’t allow Bucky to suffer any more pain than what he’s already had to endure, which means Steve can’t do this to him, not without his permission. Steve’s eyes slide past Bucky, beyond the guards, to focus on the wall. That’s unchanged, at least: the vent in the same place, the gouge out of the concrete. Or has the stain on the wall grown? He doesn’t remember what it looked like before. His breath is coming short and shallow in his chest.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice is soft, barely audible over the mechanical whir of Steve’s arm shifting and resettling. “Do what you have to do. It’s fine.”

Steve manages to focus again. He squints as though he could see through those too-pale eyes to the truth of what Bucky wants. Bucky looks right back at him, firm and unchanging as the wall.

Rumlow’s boot prods his bare ass. “We don’t have all day.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, louder now. “It’s not your fault.” 

“Not his fault?” Rumlow chuckles: a low, dirty sound. “Look at him. He’s not upset, Cap. He loves this. You don’t know the first thing about what an animal like him needs. Go on, Soldier. Show him what a good boy you can be.”

Steve can see Bucky tense when he looks at Rumlow, as if expecting a new blow to go with his latest set of instructions. As if Steve might try to retaliate, despite their piss-poor tactical position. Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s spread thighs, presses against his own hard muscle under the armor. He half expects to feel it as he digs his fingers in, but it’s not his body, not right now. Bucky looks down at him, and Steve looks right back, willing him to understand. “I can be good for you,” Steve says, hoping that’s not too far outside the range of the Soldier’s normal behavior.

Bucky lets out a long, slow breath. Then he closes his eyes and bows his head the bare fraction allowed by the knife still pressed to his throat. 

That’s as much answer as Steve’s likely to get. Quickly, before his resolve can erode further, Steve bends forward, hands fumbling with uniform fastening he’s never dealt with from this angle. This is the body he dressed this morning, when he shaved and brushed his teeth and put on standard issue BVDs underneath his uniform. He pushes the briefs down to expose what he’s after, a part of himself that he wouldn’t have thought a roomful of Hydra soldiers would ever see.

Bucky’s eyes are open again, but he’s staring straight ahead into middle distance, jaw clenched tight and lips pressed into a thin, angry line: bracing himself as if for a punch he can’t avoid. Steve uses his flesh hand to heft Bucky’s cock, a familiar soft weight. He wraps his fingers around it and gives a gentle tug—the same way Bucky sometimes does, never failing to get Steve’s full attention. Bucky huffs out a thin breath and looks down. Steve has a sudden flash of the night a few weeks ago, kneeling next to the bed between Bucky’s legs, looking up at him in the dim light and nuzzling against denim until Bucky gave him what he wanted. Steve's cock—hard from Rumlow’s earlier treatment—gives an interested twitch, and Steve hurries himself along.

He presses his fingers into Bucky’s hard thighs as he lowers his mouth to take in Bucky’s cock. He thought he knew his own body, but he’s never seen himself up close this way, seen the intimidating bulk of his cock even before it’s hard. He doesn’t hesitate; he won’t leave Bucky exposed any longer than necessary. Besides, Bucky’s body knows how to open up and take the thick cock into the root. Never before had Steve really appreciated the skill it takes to do this, swallowing around the soft obstruction in his mouth while continuing to move, dragging the tight circle of his lips and down the shaft. He can’t see Bucky’s face well from this position, but he can feel the relentless tension in his muscles.

“Well trained, isn’t he? You saw how easy it is to get him hard. I wonder if you’re the same. As uptight as you are, I bet it’s been a while since you got your dick wet.” Steve can hear Rumlow moving behind him, then the change in air currents and body heat as Rumlow crouches behind him. “You should have looked harder for your pal Bucky. You could’ve had a live-in fuckdoll.” 

Something smooth and hard nudges between Steve’s legs, prodding at his balls, and his stomach clenches when he recognizes the stun baton. That tight lump of anticipation is back, and it spurs him on to suck harder. Bucky’s cock is firming and growing in his mouth, making it more difficult to breathe.

“I know, I know. You’d want to let him off the leash and tell him he’s a person, treat him like he’s the guy you used to know, but he’s never going to be that, Cap.” 

The baton continues to move between Steve’s legs, spreading around the dripping mess on his skin, but Rumlow also braces his hand against Steve’s ass, an anchoring touch that soothes the anxious knot in his belly. He relaxes into his task, bobbing his head down onto Bucky’s hard cock. Steve remembers being pinned on the bed, Bucky holding his hands down in an implacable grip while he knelt over him, sucking and teasing. He tries those tricks now, pulls out everything Buck has ever done to get Steve to finish with embarrassing speed. On those nights, Bucky usually ended up flopped on top of Steve, a victorious grin pressed into Steve’s shoulder as he gloated. The sooner Steve finishes this task, the sooner they can move on with the mission. The sooner Bucky will be safe. The sooner they can go back to that.

“See how eager he is? Months AWOL, and within ten minutes he was back on his knees for us. He’s always gonna be a desperate, pathetic slut. You know why, Cap? Deep down, beneath all the trigger words and the cottage cheese they made of his brain, he knows this is what he deserves. Look at him. You’re the enemy, and he’s desperate to please you, just to follow orders.” Rumlow nudges the tip of the baton inside, and Steve braces his knees apart to improve his balance and avoid jostling Bucky. As fucked open as he is, the penetration barely registers, and he keeps sucking. “You like this, don’t you, kitten?”

Steve nods as well as he can with Bucky’s dick down his throat. He’s following orders, which is what he’s meant to be doing for the mission. Bucky’s holding back noise, those helpless groans Steve knows he himself lets out when he’s close to the edge. Just a little more, and Bucky will be done. They’ll leave him alone.

“Look at him, taking it from both ends.” Rumlow pushes the baton further in, working it in rhythm with Steve’s mouth. “But he hasn’t gotten you off yet. Must be slipping. If you don’t come soon, Cap, I’ll have to turn this on. See if that motivates him.”

“Don’t,” Bucky grits out.

“You don’t get to give me orders anymore, Captain.” Rumlow works the baton in further, eliciting a pained grunt from Steve.

"Rumlow." Bucky takes a shuddery breath, loud in the tense silence. “Please don’t.”

“I don’t know where you got these manners, but I like them,” Rumlow says. “Still not convinced.”

With that much warning, Steve manages to get his mouth off Bucky in time to scream when Rumlow activates the stun baton. His fingers clench reflexively against Bucky’s thighs, the metal arm seizing up. He tries to breathe through the pain, and smells the scent of leather, blood, and his own skin. The shock stops pulsing through Steve, and he collapses, sprawled halfway in Bucky’s lap. He can’t do anything but shudder and gulp in air.

“Soldier,” Rumlow barks. “Finish your mission.”

Blindly, Steve opens his mouth and gropes with his tongue until he can get Bucky’s cock back in his mouth. He has barely enough coordination to start sucking again.

“You holding back, Cap? Afraid it’s undignified to come from a blow job by a highly trained Hydra operative?” Rumlow leans in, deliberately staying out of Bucky’s biting or headbutting range, but levering the baton up to stretch Steve and make him whine. “Or do you like seeing him scream?”

“If you want to hurt someone, hurt me.”

“You think I don’t know how to hurt you, Cap? I served under you. I _know_ you.” There’s a pause where Steve can’t see what’s happening. Rumlow rubs a hand down Steve’s spine, soothing away the shudders induced by the shock. Then Bucky huffs out a pained breath, and Rumlow laughs. “Make him come, Soldier.”

Steve keeps his eyes closed as he tongues roughly against the leaking head of Bucky’s cock and slides his hand back to cup Bucky’s sac, something Steve’s found almost always pushes Bucky over the edge. With a strangled shout, Bucky spills into Steve’s mouth. It tastes wrong, though surely he’s swallowed Bucky’s come a hundred times or more. Except this isn’t Bucky’s cock in his mouth, not really. They aren’t together in the darkness and safety of Steve’s bedroom. Bucky’s hips snap forward, making Steve gag and cough.

He’s still gasping for air when Rumlow grabs a handful of his hair and tugs. “Get up. We’re not done yet.” He drags the baton out of Steve’s ass, prompting a pained grunt. “I want to see you fuck Captain America.”

Steve lets Rumlow pull him to his feet, taking the opportunity to check his condition. The arm doesn’t seem to have been disabled by the shock, and although he’s still a bit wobbly, all his limbs are under his control. When Rumlow lets go, Steve tries to settle himself into the Winter Soldier’s confident stance: shoulders back, chin up, as if he hadn’t just been screaming on the floor with Rumlow’s stun baton spreading him open. 

“Move,” Steve says, wooden and flat as he can manage, and grabs Bucky’s shoulder. Bryant pulls his knife away as Steve moves to shove Bucky on his back. 

“Wait—“ Bucky protests, but Steve clamps the metal hand over his mouth. Bucky can’t blow their cover now by trying to comfort Steve, not when it’s almost over. Bucky’s eyes widen, and his eyes dart from Steve to Rumlow and back. He tries to say something else, but it’s too muffled to make out. Then he pulls against of Steve’s grip. He’s not using his full strength, but he is looking at Steve again with pleading eyes. Steve rubs his thumb, the metal one, against Bucky's shoulder where he's holding onto him, but that's all the reassurance he can give right now without putting them in more danger.

Under the cover of Bucky’s struggle, Steve does a quick threat assessment. There are only four men left besides Rumlow. Harrison’s the one holding the shield, but he’s also got his weapon out. Park is watching lazily, grip loose on his rifle. Bryant holds his knife in a confident reverse grip, and he’s hard again in his pants. There’s a fourth man whose name Steve didn’t catch when he was sucking his cock earlier. He’s young, curly-haired. His eyes are fixed on Bucky’s pained expression, and his gun is pointed at the floor.

Steve guides Bucky down in a controlled push, straddling him with a knee on either side of his thighs. Rather than move out of the way, Rumlow steps up next to Steve to get a better view, putting him conveniently in range of Steve’s left arm. Steve tightens his grip as Bucky tries to push back, unwilling to let his hands be pinned under him.

“Stop fighting,” Steve says and Bucky squints up at him, expression creased with worry.

“Yeah, Cap,” Rumlow puts in, teeth bared in a feral grin. “Don’t pretend you’re not going to like this.”

Steve shoves hard, his hands on Bucky’s arms until he has him flat against the floor.

“Goes down easy,” Rumlow says, and the others laugh.

“On three,” Steve breathes, barely loud enough for super-soldier hearing. He shifts his grip to fit over Bucky’s wrists, just above the mag-cuffs, and angles his body to block Rumlow’s view. “One. Two.”

Their combined strength snaps the cuffs easily.


	5. Chapter 5

A calculated swing knocks Rumlow off his feet, and then Steve dives for the shield. As soon as he’s wrenched it out of Harrison’s grip, he flings it to Bucky, who has Rumlow pinned with a boot on his throat. Bucky catches the shield with a magnetized gauntlet and slams the edge against the floor, making a horrible clang in the small room that shuts up the other Hydra soldiers. Steve has the metal arm in a chokehold around Harrison’s neck, but the others have their weapons pointed at Bucky—Captain America. 

“Drop your weapons,” Bucky says in an uncanny imitation of Steve’s command voice. “Surrender now, your CO lives and you’ll be turned over to the authorities.”

Bryant glances at Park, who gives a quick shake of his head, but Bryant purses his lips and starts to lower his weapon. Three quick shots ring out from the center of the room, and then all three men are slumping to the ground with perfect round holes in the middle of their foreheads. 

Bucky lowers Rumlow’s Sig—the Sig that had recently been in Steve’s mouth-- then looks to Steve. “Soldier,” he snaps. “Did they wipe you?”

“What?” Steve frowns. “No.”

“Good.” Bucky rakes his eyes over Steve. A frown mars Bucky’s face—Steve’s face, still recognizable behind the helmet, then gives a quick shake of his head. “That’s… good.”

The man Steve’s holding tries to kick and Steve tightens his grip without taking his eyes off Bucky. He’s still replaying in his mind everything he said and did since they hauled Bucky into the room, wondering if the little signals he thought he was giving had not been received the way he’d meant.

“We only need one of them alive,” Bucky says and turns back to Rumlow. 

The man Steve’s holding whimpers. Steve tightens his grip, cutting off the man’s air. With the metal arm, he has to concentrate not to apply too much pressure and crush the trachea. He holds on until the man slumps into unconsciousness, and then Steve drops him to the floor before returning his attention to Bucky. 

Bucky has Rumlow disarmed and standing, with Bryant’s knife pressed to his throat. Somehow he’s refastened his pants. Bucky nods to the discarded pile of the Winter Soldier’s gear.

“Put those on. It’s better armor than the Hydra uniforms.” He drags Rumlow around until his back is to Steve, giving him at least the illusion of privacy. 

Steve hobbles over to the clothes and starts dressing himself as quickly as he can with one eye on Bucky. 

“Tell me where you keep the conditioning equipment.”

“You won’t kill me,” Rumlow sneers. Steve can’t see his face, but he knows the tone by heart. “You don’t have the stones, Cap.”

A snap echoes off the bare walls as Bucky breaks two of Rumlow’s fingers. The ensuing scream is gratifying. “Where?”

“Bu—“ Steve cuts himself off. “Cap. Don’t.”

“Stay out of this,” Bucky says without looking at Steve. “Tell me where the chair is, or your knee is next.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Rumlow pants.

Bucky flips his knife in his hand and raises it. 

“Okay, okay!” There’s real fear in his voice, something he’d never come close to when talking to the Soldier. “It’s on Sublevel Two. North wing.”

Bucky pulls Rumlow in even closer and bares Steve’s perfectly straight teeth, smeared red with blood. “If you are lying to me, I’m going to come back here and cut off your hand, and we’ll try again.”

“You’re not…” Rumlow twists in Bucky’s grip to look up at Bucky’s face, and then his eyes flick to Steve. “Wait…” 

Bucky throws a punch that drops Rumlow like so much dead weight. Steve has to kneel and search for a pulse to make sure he’s only unconscious. When he looks up, Bucky’s already stripping weapons off the dead men.

“Can you walk?” Bucky asks as he checks the magazine of an M4. 

“Of course I can walk,” Steve says, though there’s a small tremor running through his whole body, and his knees feel like they might dump him onto the floor at any moment.

“Stay behind me.” Bucky finds places on Steve’s uniform to stash at least five guns before handing Steve Rumlow’s Sig with two extra clips on his way to the door. “The others should have drawn away most of the guards, but we could still run into trouble.”

“I’m not hurt.” Steve grits his teeth and hurries to catch Bucky before he storms out into the hallway. When he grabs Bucky’s elbow, Bucky stops but won’t look at him. “We’re doing this together.”

Bucky lets out a slow breath, then says. “Take the shield.” He pulls it free of his gauntlet and offers it to Steve. “You’re more practiced with it.” 

“Not in this body.” Steve keeps his voice steady, but he isn’t able to still the shaking in his flesh hand. His skin feels too tight now, with the Soldier’s body armor strapped over it once more. He can stay on his feet until the mission’s done, but holding the shield—being the man the shield belongs to—is more than he can manage at the moment. “I’ll stick to guns.”

Bucky frowns, but he keeps the shield. 

The trip to Sublevel Two should be routine. He and Bucky had cleaned out their share of Hydra bases back in the war, but then it had always been Steve in front, charging into danger with shield held high, and Bucky watching his back. Now, Steve holds Rumlow’s gun in his right hand, and keeps the left clenched at his side. His eyes move constantly, checking behind and around and up ahead past Bucky into the deserted, half-lit corridors. 

By the time they make it to a door in the north wing marked “Maintenance,” Steve has gotten a better feel for this body’s constant vigilance, its tendency to track even the smallest movement or variation from expected pattern. There’s no sound from behind the door, no sign of movement. 

Bucky touches his fingers to the door panel, then sucks in a quick breath. “Let’s get what we came for.” The door slides open at the push of a button, revealing a bright white room with the chair bolted down in the center. There’s a stainless steel examination table, a rack of neatly organized supplies, and a bank of computers, but no Hydra lackeys waiting in ambush. 

Bucky strides right in, and Steve follows with a last quick look down the hallway. The door slides closed behind them.

Steve’s seen schematics of the chair and even pictures, but in person it looks even more sinister. It’s bigger than he thought, a monstrous presence anchoring the room. A wave of disorientation makes him stumble, and even though he keeps his feet, he feels the vertiginous sensation of being pushed back, being held down. His breathing and heart rate spike, and when tastes blood he realizes he’s bitten his lip hard enough to break skin.

“Soldier. You with me?” Bucky appears in front of him, and Steve feels his strong hands gripping him by the shoulders. “Hey. Listen. Settle down.”

When that tone of command is in Bucky’s voice, Steve can’t help but focus. He looks Bucky in the eye, and his breath starts to even out. 

“Good. Now, I want you to stand outside.” Bucky presses the button that opens the door, and he turns Steve firmly towards the exit. “Stand outside and guard the door. Shout if any guards show up.”

Steve takes up a defensive position outside the door with his gun at the ready. No matter how he strains his sensitive hearing, he can’t hear anything going on inside the room. But that’s fine. Bucky knows what he’s doing. He’d planned to do this part himself. How would he have done it—let Rumlow march him down here naked and hurt, after all the soldiers had sated themselves? Pretend to go quietly to the chair? Would he have signaled the others then, or would he have waited until he was sure they wouldn’t see what had been done to him? Would he have let them wipe him, knowing that he’d come back from that horror once and could do it again?

Steve’s grip on the Sig has turned white-knuckled and painful by the time Bucky steps out of the room holding a memory stick, which he passes to Steve. “You’re in charge of this.”

Without another word, Bucky strides off down the corridor, and Steve has to jog to keep up. When they reach the relative safety of a fortified guard station, Steve closes the door behind them and watches as Bucky starts flipping switches on the elaborate control board. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Steve says. 

Bucky stiffens for a moment, then goes right back to dismantling the base’s security system. “That’s right. There was no reason to tell you.”

“Bucky.” Steve walks over to grab Bucky by the shoulder and turn him, _make _him look at Steve. “You didn’t tell me and you were going to walk right back in here and let it happen to you again.”__

__“Because I can handle it, Steve. I’ve done it before, plenty of times.” He shakes off Steve’s grip and goes back to the console._ _

__Before Steve can stop himself, he asks, “How many times?”_ _

__Bucky’s hand freezes in reaching for a red button, and Steve imagines that sick knot of dread he’d felt earlier being a constant presence, the strain of knowing what the Hydra handlers were capable of and being certain they would hurt him again._ _

__Bucky shakes his head. “It was my decision.” A few more buttons, and a quick command code punched into the computer, and he straightens. “That should do it. We have to get you switched back. Come on.”_ _

__Bucky grabs Steve by his wrist and pulls him back toward the hallway, but Steve plants his feet and doesn’t move. “Wait.” He blows out a long breath under Bucky’s watchful eye. “I… You shouldn’t have to feel what I let them do.”_ _

__“I can handle pain, Steve.”_ _

__“It’s not just—“ Steve clenches his fists, hearing the metal plates of the arm shift and resettle. As terrible as it is, he has to come clean to Bucky. He knows now that it’s worse to be kept in the dark. “Bucky, I… I enjoyed it. It got me off. You saw.”_ _

__“You came.” Bucky lets go of his arm and blinks at him, face unreadable behind the Captain America mask. “So what? That’s what they wanted, that’s what they conditioned the Soldier to do, so that’s what you did. It’s my body. I’m fully aware there’s something wrong with it. Doesn’t mean you enjoyed it.”_ _

__Steve shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I—“_ _

__“No!” Bucky reaches for Steve, then snatches his hand back and drops it to his side. “No. I do understand. Believe me, I do. It was worse for you because you didn’t know what was going to happen. I should have told you. I’m sorry. But we have go keep moving.” He pushes open the door to the guard station and herds Steve through it. “Go on. Wanda will fix this.”_ _

__Bucky sets a punishing pace, sprinting down corridors at a speed that makes Steve appreciate Sam’s frustration with their morning runs. Whenever Steve’s lungs start to burn or his knees threaten to buckle, he pats the memory stick secure in the pocket of the Soldier’s tactical gear, and pushes onward. After he’s followed Bucky up yet another flight of stairs in this labyrinthine excuse for a base, he manages to call out to Bucky before he disappears around the corner, “Cap, wait up. Please.”_ _

__Bucky jogs back to him, looks him over, then gingerly lays a hand on his left shoulder. “I know it hurts. The sooner we get to Wanda, the sooner it’ll stop hurting.”_ _

__“This was an accident.” Steve leans forward, bracing himself against Bucky’s solid chest. “We don’t even know if she can fix it.”_ _

__Bucky pushes him back to arm’s length. His eyes look unfathomable and dark in the red emergency lighting. “You’re not staying in that body a second longer than you have to.”_ _

__“I’m sorry. I never meant to—“_ _

__“Don’t.” His fingers trail down the metal arm until his gloved hand clasps Steve’s. “It was never supposed to touch you. You never should have had to know. I’m gonna take care of it. Your body’s fine. We’ll get you switched back, and you won’t have to deal with it anymore.” He pulls Steve forward, inexorably strong. “Come on.”_ _

__“Bucky—wait—“ Steve stumbles after Bucky, gritting his teeth against each spike of pain. It’s not the same as being in his own body, knowing he can endure any injury; Steve knows how much he can take, and his new super-enhanced body hasn’t let him down yet. But Bucky’s body is an unknown quantity—Steve had thought before that he’d had an intimate understanding of it, but there’d been a world of things he’d never seen coming. The arm shifts as he moves, plates humming and clinking, and Steve flinches away from the sound. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice._ _

__They emerge into a hangar dotted with burning wrecks of small aircraft. Bucky raises his weapon, then lowers it quickly as a figure drops down before them._ _

__Sam’s wings retract with a series of metallic whirrs much quieter than the arm at Steve’s side. “Gentlemen,” he says with a nod._ _

__“Mission status,” Bucky snaps._ _

__Sam glances between the two of them, but he answers Cap. “On track, as far as Plan C goes.” Sam looks over Steve, hunched in on himself in Bucky’s body, and frowns. “You okay, man?”_ _

__“We got what we came for.” Steve digs the memory stick out of his pocket and holds it up. “You all right?”_ _

__“Well, I’m wearing the body I woke up in, so I’m calling that a win.”_ _

__Steve can’t help but chuckle at that, but Bucky’s busy scanning their surroundings, and doesn’t so much as crack a smile. “Where’s Wanda?” Bucky asks._ _

__“Back at the jet. Should be a clear path.” Sam’s eyes are concealed behind his goggles, but Steve feels the weight of his gaze anyway. “You sure you’re--?”_ _

__“I’m fine.” Steve pastes on what he hopes is a reassuring smile, though he realizes belatedly that on Bucky’s face it might look strange. He tries to remember the last time he saw Bucky smile, and can’t picture it._ _

__“Come on.” Bucky grabs Steve by the wrist and drags him towards the exit._ _

__“Whoa, slow down.” Steve glances behind to see Sam launch himself skyward again. “We’re still in enemy territory here.”_ _

__“You think I don’t know that? We have to get to Wanda.” Bucky’s finger is by the trigger, his eyes actively scanning, shield raised. He’s keeping himself in front of Steve, making himself an obvious target. Before Steve can come up with a smart response, Bucky glances back and looks him up and down. “You can’t be stuck with _that thing_ any longer than necessary.”_ _

__“That…” Steve looks down at the Soldier’s body, solid and still functioning after all the abuse it’s taken. “You mean your body?”_ _

__“It’s clear.” Bucky starts to move and gestures for Steve to follow. He settles into a jog that leaves Steve struggling to follow as they cross the tarmac to where the Quinjet is waiting._ _

__Bruce is a figure in a puffy winter coat standing at the bottom of the jet’s ramp. He sees them coming and waves them in. Bucky drops back to cover Steve—unnecessarily, as Sam hasn’t left anything moving as far as the eye can see—then follows him on board._ _

__“Wanda’s out cold,” Bruce says. “Whatever she did must have taken a massive amount of energy. She’s been unconscious since you took off.”_ _

__“No.” Bucky stops mid stride. He lowers the shield. “That’s… No.”_ _

__“Vision took her back to the Tower.” Bruce shoots Steve an apologetic look. “She’s almost certainly going to be fine, she just needs—“_ _

__“No!” Bucky slams his fist into the bulkhead, creating a sizeable dent._ _

__Bruce scrambles backwards, looking a bit green around the gills but already taking deep breaths to settle himself._ _

__Steve bolts to Bucky’s side. “Hey, it’s okay. Breathe with me,” he says, like Bucky used to when they were kids. His lungs work just fine now, of course, but sometimes when he’s worked up he finds himself gasping for air as if his body has never quite forgotten what it felt like to fight for every breath. “We’ll get on the jet, get out of here. Natasha can lead the cleanup. She knows what to look for. All right?” Bucky doesn’t say anything, so he looks to Bruce._ _

__“Go on,” Bruce says. His fists are clenched at his side, but he looks pale rather than green. “We’ve got it covered.”_ _

__“Fine.” Bucky slings the shield onto his back. “He needs to get to a doctor, anyway.”_ _

__“No, I don’t.” Steve can’t look at Bucky as he says it. “I’m not really hurt.”_ _

__“Banner,” Bucky says._ _

__Bruce holds up both hands. “I only deal with wiling patients. Steve?”_ _

__“I’m not hurt,” Steve says. “Give us a sec?”_ _

__With a last glance at Bucky, Bruce retreats out of the jet, leaving them alone._ _

__“Come on,” Bucky says. He leads the way inside, to the first aid station behind the cockpit. He pulls Steve into the glaring light. “Let me look.”_ _

__“I’m fine.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest._ _

__“Steve, it’s my body. Let me look.”_ _

__Steve lowers his head and goes still. Bucky’s always been good at holding still—a necessity for a sniper—and the body relaxes into immobility easily. Bucky’s hand, the right one, with Steve’s calluses from the shield, brushes over his face, smearing the blood that’s started to dry at the corner of his mouth. Bucky leans in, eyes drifting closed. Steve reaches for him, but the moment the metal hand makes contact, Bucky jerks away._ _

__“I—I know there’s gauze in here.” Bucky turns around to rummage through a drawer._ _

__As soon as Bucky’s not looking Steve lets a panicked breath shudder through him. Of course Bucky doesn’t want to touch him, not like that, not now that he knows what Steve’s done. He has to let Bucky do what he wants—he’s right, it’s _his_ body—but Steve can’t expect the same intimacy they’d enjoyed before now that he’s let Bucky’s body be violated this way. He has to ignore what he wants. He’s gotten good at that in the past few hours._ _

__“Listen, I don’t heal as quickly as you do,” Bucky says, turning back with bandages in hand. “I’ve just gotten used to fighting through the pain. They trained me to ignore it. So in case Wanda can’t… In case this takes longer than we thought, you have to get patched up. Clothes off.”_ _

__Steve fumbles with the buckles, awkward with the metal fingers now that he has time to think. Bucky takes over without comment, efficiently stripping the body of its gear right down to the boots. There’s the same opaque flatness to his expression that Steve had tried to mimic in front of the Hydra soldiers. He’s probably trying not to show his disgust._ _

__Steve curls his shoulders in when Bucky walks around behind him, looming like the soldiers had done. Then Bucky presses his thumb into the muscle just below the shoulder blade, and Steve’s breath leaves him in a rush: he hadn’t even realized he’d tuned out that particular hard lump of agony until it eased._ _

__“See, I know this body, Steve,” Bucky says, low in his ear, the tone unfamiliar coming from the wrong voice. “I know all its flaws. I just want to help.”_ _

__Steve manages a noncommittal grunt, but he doesn’t move away from Bucky’s touch._ _

__“Yeah, okay.” Bucky pulls his hands away. “Sit up straight. I’m going to check for internal bleeding.”_ _

__“You a doctor now?” Steve grumbles, but it’s half-hearted. Whatever Bucky wants him to do, he’ll do._ _

__“I know what to look for.” Bucky reaches around to press his fingers against Steve’s abdomen. Steve feels certain Bucky should be able to feel the cold lump of dread that’s still lodged there, the one that hadn’t eased at all even when Bucky had neutralized the enemies. “Nothing ruptured.” Bucky’s touch moves along his sides, then his back, avoiding the worst of the darkening bruises from the stun baton._ _

__Steve recognizes a routine in Bucky’s confident ministrations. “They did this to you a lot.”_ _

__“Breathe in,” Bucky orders, and Steve does, despite the pain. “Yeah, broken ribs for sure. Otherwise performance shouldn’t be impeded. Let me strap these.” Bucky grabs a bandage from the drawer and starts winding it tight around Steve’s torso._ _

__Performance. The asset was a weapon. A valuable one. They wouldn’t want his combat abilities compromised. “They didn’t have to hurt me to get me to comply.” Steve keeps his eyes fixed on the wall of the jet, unwilling to interrupt Bucky’s examination of the damage Steve has done to his body. “They didn’t expect me to fight back.”_ _

__“I knew better,” Bucky says._ _

__There’s cold determination in those words, and when Steve closes his eyes he can see with awful clarity all the things that had been done to him today. What must it be like to know what’s coming from long experience and bow to the inevitable, accept what must happen? “Bucky--”_ _

__“Why?” Bucky breaks in. “Steve, look at me.” When Steve doesn’t comply right away, Bucky grabs him by the chin and turns Steve to face him. “When you knew what they were going to do, why?”_ _

__“The mission.”_ _

__“No.” Bucky shakes his head emphatically, and Steve feels his fingers tighten painfully against his jaw. “The mission’s not worth you getting hurt like this.”_ _

__“Oh, but you getting hurt is a-okay?” Steve pulls out of Bucky’s grip. “I’m in command, I made a tactical decision. I’m sorry I put your body through that. If there’d been another way to—“_ _

__“It’s not my body I’m worried about, Steve!” Bucky clutches him, large hands spanning his shoulders. “I never wanted… “ He takes in a deep breath, then seems to notice his fingers digging into Steve’s arms and smooths his hands gently down Steve’s sides. “It’s fine. We’ll get you switched back. It’ll all be over. You won’t have to deal with this mess anymore.” For the first time in a long time, Bucky’s bigger than Steve, stronger than him. He pulls Steve close, and his arms encircle him, a comforting weight. “Just, please, until we get to Wanda, let me take care of this.”_ _

__“Okay, Bucky.” Held against Bucky’s firm chest, it’s difficult to say no to anything. This is Bucky’s body, and he knows what it needs. If it takes Wanda a few days to recover, well, Steve’s mama raised him to return what he’d borrowed in better shape than he’d found it. If Steve has his way, Bucky will never have to deal with the lingering effects of what Steve has allowed to happen. He only hopes that when they change back, he can take every ounce of his shame and humiliation with him, leaving nothing behind to poison the body he’d borrowed. Bucky doesn’t deserve to deal with Steve’s perversions on top of everything else he’d already endured._ _

__“Okay,” he says, and lets himself relax in Bucky’s arms. “You’re the Captain.”_ _


End file.
